


Eastwick

by eratospen



Category: Original Work
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Feeding Kink, Force-Feeding, M/M, Regency Romance, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7102195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratospen/pseuds/eratospen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Isaac's father died, he became the Duke of Northumberland and inherited its title, its lands, its wealth...and its peculiar requirements. 1) He must marry and marry well, despite a growing love for his former comrade-in-arms, Richard. 2) He must become a member of the exclusive club Eastwick and join the Prince Regent in his wild Seasons...even though Isaac prides himself on his looks and everyone knows that the lords who run with the Regent are all but destined to get hugely fat.</p><p>Warning: This is a Regency-set male (and female) weight gain / belly kink story. If that doesn't sound like your thing...it probably isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Isaac

No one questioned the subject of inheritance because sons had been receiving their due for generations. To the youngest went the church living, complete with a properly modest cottage, a wholesome wife, and an adoring flock. To the second son went the Army commission, which brought a promise of independent wealth and future glory along with the constant threat to life and limb.  
  
And to the eldest went all the responsibilities of the peerage—the desperate need for a similarly connected wife and future heir, the bother of estates and bookkeeping, the punishing demands of renters and the working poor, and of course the ultimate goal: to keep in good with the Prince Regent whatever the cost to pocketbook, moral character…or body.  
  
“He expects a full Season’s membership to Eastwick, you know,” Isaac complained, sprawled sulkily on the lush violet chaise. A woman’s practiced fingers were twining through his hair, tugging on the short black strands before soothing his scalp. Another scantily dressed woman was perched at his feet, full breasts nearly swinging free of her gown as she kissed the tips of his toes. “A full Season every Season. And it’s not just for show, either—I have to _go_ nearly every night and dine with the old prigs or I risk hetting Prinny up.”  
  
Fitzwilliam hummed in idle agreement, hoisting a giggling, half-naked girl onto his lap. Richard, as always, was more sympathetic. “My brother had to take up membership when he ascended to the title, too,” he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Dirty blond hair fell into his eyes and he flicked it away irritably before one of the whores could reach for him. “He hated it the first few weeks, but he said you grew used to it over time.”  
  
Isaac made a face and Fitzwilliam laughed, hands lifting to cup his girl’s breasts. “’Grew’ is the operative term, though, isn’t it? Everyone knows why Prinny insists on his circle dining at Eastwick so often. He’s grown so abominably fat over the last few years that he can’t stand being the only one rolling about town. How big a belly has the Lord Aldritch got on him now?”  
  
Richard flushed. “He _has_ gained weight,” he admitted. “A substantial amount over the last few Seasons. But that doesn’t mean everyone dining at Eastwick is bound to—“  
  
“ _Everyone_ dining at Eastwick is bound to get fat,” Isaac interrupted sharply. He sat up, pushing aside the whore’s hands irritably, muscles tensing up. He could feel them beneath his half-undone shirt—the tight, strong stomach and chest, the sturdy arms. It wasn’t pride feeding his opinion of himself.  
  
Well. It wasn’t _undeserved_ pride. He was a Corinthian. He was a _sporting_ man, given to pugilism and horse racing and hunting. He’d served with the 34th Mounted with Richard and Fitzwilliam and all of his friends, secure in his place as second son.  
  
Until the shipping accident that cost his father and brother their lives.  
  
He sighed and pushed his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t wanted the title, or the money. He’d been doing just fine without it, enjoying his freedom, his active lifestyle, and his many male and female lovers. Being the Duke of Northumberland brought more changes than he knew how to handle—not the least of which was the threatened blow to his vanity. “The food’s rich enough to spoil a man’s insides, and everyone knows you keep eating so long as the Regent is still at table.”  
  
“And everyone knows Prinny’s got an appetite that can barely be sated.” Fitzwilliam slid an arm around his girl’s waist and shifted on the opposite couch to face Isaac, letting her sprawl across his lap. She was a pretty sort, if redheaded, and Isaac found his gaze dropping to the V of her thighs barely hidden by the gauzy excuse for a dress.  
  
At his side, his own two whores crept closer, and Isaac let them, reaching out to grab a handful each of pert bottom. One warm hand slid up under the hem of his shirt, nails raking across his tight abs. One firm thigh slid over his.  
  
Richard frowned and glanced down, then shrugged. He stood, tugging off his own shirt, balling it tight before tossing it aside. His sun-bronzed skin gleamed in the fitful light of the bordello. His muscles shifted and bunched as he moved closer.  
  
“You’ll be rich, Isaac,” Fitzwilliam murmured. Isaac closed his eyes, thighs spreading apart as soft lips brushed over his skin. A larger, broader palm moved along his jaw and he bit his lip, hips lifting in blatant invitation. “Richer than any of us will ever be. More important than any of us will ever dream of, even if we _do_ go back to war.” There was the sound of knees hitting the hardwood floor, then broad shoulders pushed his legs apart. One of the whores began unfastening Isaac’s breeches and he let it happen, head tipping back, eyes still tightly shut. Fitzwilliam was still talking, but the words were beginning to fade in and out, making little sense.  
  
_Why shouldn’t I enjoy this now?_ Isaac thought, riding up into the heat that was gradually beginning to build. He felt languid and open, vulnerable and flushed. He was hard and his balls ached at the irregular gusts of breath soaking through the woven cloth. Isaac gasped when ones of the whores pinched his nipples. A hot, masculine mouth brushed over his still-clothed erection.  
  
“So you’ll go to Eastwick and dine with Prinny near every night.” Fitzwilliam’s words blended with the soft sounds of skin on skin and his own irregular breaths. “So you’ll be stuffed like a prize hog every Season until your breeches don’t fit and your gut bounces with each step. You’ll still be the Duke of Northumberland, you’ll still be rich as God Himself, and you’ll still be twice the man either of us will be.”  
  
A dry laugh.  
  
“Literally.”  
  
Isaac made a rude gesture, hips lifting toward Richard’s gifted mouth helplessly. He was pressed down against the chaise by a tangle of limbs, male and female. Even Fitzwilliam sounded closer, low voice near Isaac’s ear. A hand swiped over his stomach, calluses making him shiver, and a thumbnail flicked along the circumference of his bellybutton.  
  
“Enjoy m’lord’s body tonight, ladies, Richard,” Fitzwilliam teased. Isaac turned his head and opened his eyes and yes—yes, he was _right there_ , blue eyes glittering in amusement, full mouth parted in a wicked grin. The whore in his arms was fully naked, legs around his waist, skin gleaming in the candlelight. “Take your fill of his beautiful body. There’s going to be a great deal more of it to come once the Season is in full swing.”  
  
His rough hand rubbed a teasing circle along Isaac’s stomach. Isaac felt his body clench, felt Richard’s tongue press against the head of his cock through layers of cloth, teasing a moan out of him. Soft breasts rubbed against his skin and long hair was tangled about his face.  
  
Fitzwilliam winked at him and pinched the bare flesh of his stomach. “A great _deal_ more.”


	2. Isaac

“M’lord.”  
  
The voice came from a great distance, as if echoing down to the bottom of a well. Isaac huffed a breath and turned away from the vague annoyance, absently pulling the covers tighter around his body. He’d been in the middle of a fantastic dream. In it, he and his friends had been cavorting just off the shores of Brighton Beach. There were ladies taking the waters down the way, watching them with warmly appreciative eyes as the three men mock-wrestled and mucked about.  
  
His skin had been glowing with sun and health. His tight, firm muscles had gleamed with the spray of water. He’d felt so _alive_.  
  
“M’lord. M’lord, please.”  
  
Isaac grabbed at his pillow and swung out angrily, eyes finally opening. His long-suffering manservant danced back easily, well used to dealing with his tempers. “Good God, man,” Isaac grumbled, slitting his eyes against the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. His head felt heavy and groggy. “What time is it?”  
  
“It’s going on five, M’lord, and you’ll need to be getting up now if we’re to get you to the club on time.”  
  
He groaned, covering his eyes with one arm. He’d been out incredibly late the night before, as he’d been nearly every night for the last few months. The Prince Regent was celebrating the return of the Season in high style, and he was dragging his highest-ranking peers along with him. Gambling and whoring and strong alcohol wherever they went. Carousing about like wild creatures, giving in to every sin and excess. And, of course, massive dinners every night at the Prince’s favorite club, Eastwick.  
  
The first few weeks of the Season had been impossibly hard. Isaac was new to the title and found he had a difficult time keeping up with the Prince Regent the way he was expected to. A life in the Army had hardened his body and accustomed him to discipline and exercise with occasional evenings of debauchery with his friends, but now—  
  
Now he was living a 24-hour circus of excess, and it was wearing him down.  
  
He drew a deep breath, then another, feeling himself begin to drift. His manservant’s hand on his arm shook Isaac back into himself, and he batted the man’s hands away, dropping the arm from his face. “Very well, very well,” Isaac snapped, pushing back the covers and struggling out of the bed. “I am awake. Dear God, man, if we had you in the 84th, there would have been no need for miserly generals.” He dug his fingers through his hair and scratched his belly through the fine white lawn of his sleeping shirt. “Prepare the dove grey and white,” Isaac said, frowning faintly. “And mind you starch the cravat properly this time.”  
  
He moved across the warm floorboards, hand dropping to his side. The usual hazy hangover was not present tonight, and his mind felt remarkably clear. Perhaps the prior evening had seen fewer excesses than usual.  
  
Isaac poured clean water into the washing basin and dipped his fingers in, bending to splash his face. When he glanced up into the mirror, water running down his face, he caught the gaze of his awkwardly hovering servant. “Well?” Isaac demanded.  
  
The man flushed. “Ah, sir, the greys,” he began before faltering. Isaac straightened and turned, wiping his face clear. He arched his brows, waiting impatiently as his servant twisted and twitched in front of him. “That is, m’lord, the greys are, well…”  
  
“Out with it man, or to the devil with you.”  
  
“They’re still being taken out, sir. After you, ah, that is, after the seam ruptured.”  
  
Isaac felt a strange stab of heat, like mingled dread and embarrassment, low in his belly. He glanced toward the window, noting the fading rays of afternoon light absently, as if from a great distance. His cheeks felt warm. “Ah,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot.  
  
_No, of course,_ Isaac thought, turning back to the basin so he wouldn’t have to look at his manservant. He cupped his hands and splashed his face, chasing away any lingering traces of intoxication. _I’ve been in Prinny’s company guzzling gin, chasing the dragon, and stuffing my face with his damned Eastwick delicacies. Of course my trousers are being taken out.  
  
_ He’d popped the seam of his pants after all, hadn’t he? It only soothed his vanity a little to remind himself that the dove grey—like most of his wardrobe—was cut quite slim to the body. Any shift in weight would be a strain.  
  
My God, had he really already started to gain weight?  
  
“Well, find whatever is suitable,” Isaac snapped, flushed, reaching for the hand towel. “And do mind the cravat.”  
  
“Yes, m’lord.”  
  
Isaac wiped his face and hands clean, glancing up into the mirror to watch his servant leave. He let out a breath when the door shut, gaze refocusing on his own face in the dim glass. He narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin, forcing himself to study himself, assess himself, honestly.  
  
Most nights he came home barely aware enough to undress and roll into bed, and the haze of drugs, hard alcohol, and rich foods kept him dazed when he rolled out again, was dressed by his circle of servants and hoisted into the carriage for another night’s round of dissipation. Today was different, and he was determined to make himself look at exactly what the Dukedom had brought him.  
  
The skin around his eyes was puffy and tinged lavender, Isaac noted. His cheeks were a bit softer than usual, but that was most likely due to sleep. His jaw, thank God, was still firm, and there was no sign of another chin. He’d seen many a man with chins a’wobbling, and he wanted to avoid that fate at all costs.  
  
His eyes were bloodshot, though. Little surprise there. And his black hair was an unholy mess. But he was still handsome, Isaac was relieved to note. Tired and worn, perhaps, but still the man he knew himself to be.  
  
He let out a breath, then straightened. Now for the harder truth. Isaac moved to the door to his large dressing room, checking to make certain he was alone. It was all clear.  
  
Isaac moved to stand in front of the mirror, studying himself critically. His shoulders had always been very broad, his muscled chest deep. He was an athlete—he had always been an athlete—and it showed on his powerful frame. The white lawn sleeping gown covered everything else.  
  
_Athletes are the first to go to pot_. He remembered hearing that on one of his first nights at Eastwick. An obscenely fat young lordling, come to his title some years before, had watched him try to choke down his rich dinner with a malicious gleam in his eyes. His own belly had been massive, straining against the fine brocade of his vest. His sides had been covered in thick rolls that spilled over the carved arms of the chair, and his full mouth had been smeared in plum sauce. Isaac had been struggling, five courses in, barely able to keep pace with the Prince Regent down at the far end of the table. He hadn’t been able to do anything but glare at the openly jealous piglet. _You doubt me? Oh, the rest of us get round as balls of dough, but Corinthians’ bodies aren’t used to extended laziness even as their stomachs are accustomed to large meals. You’ve made it far past what any normal man would manage, and I daresay you have a course or two of stuffing left in you._ The lordling had reached over then and prodded Isaac’s painfully full stomach, smiling maliciously. _Your belly will swell up like a tick long before the rest of you catches up…and it will catch up._ He’d patted his own wobbling gut. _Sooner than you might think._  
  
“No,” Isaac murmured, gripping handfuls of fabric, almost too afraid to lift the hem. Maybe if he didn’t look—  
  
No, God, it was better to know. He was sure it must be.  
  
He took a deep breath and began to slowly lift the hem, then cursed and yanked it up and off in one easy motion. Isaac balled up the nightshirt and tossed it aside, eyes locking on his reflection in the mirror as he began to take stock of damages.  
  
His arms were still strong, still tight with muscle. His calves and thighs were sculpted. His chest, matted with dark hair, was…not noticeably softer, he thought, prodding about the nipples. Maybe a very little bit puffy. But his belly…  
  
Isaac sighed and slid one palm down his stomach, following the small, easy slope. He turned to get a better view, feeling the wave of bitterness rise as he studied the way it curved subtly out from his body. It was a small hill, the fresh beginnings of a gut, but it was damning evidence of the nights of sin he spent stuffing and drinking himself past reason.  
  
It was, Isaac realized, a sign of what was to come. Just a few scant months into the Season and already his athletic body was betraying him, flat stomach pushing over the edges of his smallclothes even when it was empty. And when it was full…  
  
He closed his eyes and cupped both hands against his stomach, rubbing his palms along his gut. Isaac drew a deep breath and pushed out his belly as far as he could manage, amazed at the way it inflated, growing impossibly round  beneath his fingers. He opened his eyes and stared at the wide dome of it, thick and quivering as it hung over the hem of his smallclothes.  
  
A fat, heavy gut just waiting to be stuffed to bursting. And, unless he found some way around it? This disgustingly fat apparition was his future. And all the jealous men and women of the ton would snicker at him behind his wide backside, gleefully watching as the handsome dandy of the 84 th lost his looks at last.  
  
“I do not want to be fat,” Isaac murmured to himself, keeping his gut inflated as he turned. He leaned forward, pressing the full curve against the cool glass, and it was depressing how far from the frame the rest of him was. The cold glass against the swell of his stomach was getting him hard, but the rest of him was sinking with dread.  
  
The fact was, it didn’t matter if he wanted to be fat or not. He couldn’t quit Eastwick while the Prince was in residence. He had to keep pace with Prinny if he wanted to keep favor. And so long as he remained within the Prince Regent’s circle of excess, he would continue to grow and grow until he was as fat and ineffectual as any of the older dukes.  
  
As secretly ridiculed.  
  
Isaac stepped back from the mirror and let out a gust of air, watching his inflated stomach sink down just as Allen returned with his clothes. He allowed his manservant to dress him, tugging on his trousers and fastening them loosely, leaving him a depressing amount of room. Not enough, Isaac thought glumly. He’d be bursting out of them, too, soon enough.  
  
What he needed to save face, he figured as Allen slid the shirt onto him and began fussing with the waistcoat, was a wife. Married men weren’t held to the same standards as young, strapping bucks, were they? A married man might become…corpulent…and it wouldn’t be as much fodder for the gossips as a bachelor gone to seed. But who should he marry? He’d have to be careful. A fat man was pitiable, true, no matter what he did, but a fat man with a slender, beautiful wife was asking to become a cuckold. A fat man with an equally round duchess was less an object of ridicule.  
  
Society was forgiving of a man’s faults, Isaac pondered as Allen tied and re-tired his cravat. It was not so lenient with a woman. It seemed cruel—harsh and unfairly calculating—but so long as whatever woman he took to be his wife was as big-bellied as him, then the embarrassingly criticizing eye of the ton would remain on her…and leave his own vanity unpricked. And God only knew he was in need of a wife and brats anyway.  
  
No matter what he might have preferred.  
  
“Tell me, Allen,” Isaac asked suddenly, shifting his weight to let his manservant ease him into his Hessians, “when is the next ball I will be able to attend?”  
  
Allen looked up, startled, his white hair tuffed about his head like the down of a newborn chick. “There’s the Lady Epplewhite’s ball in a fortnight, m’lord. You forbade me from accepting any but the most necessary of invitations.”  
  
“Ah. Well, make certain the Lady Epplewhite is aware that I _will_ be attending. And see to it that I have something decent to wear.”  
  
“Yes, m’lord.”  
  
Society wouldn’t just toss a suitable girl in his path—not one who fit everything he needed, Isaac mused as, dressed, he headed down the townhouse steps. The carriage was already waiting outside, ready to whisk him away to another night of painful excess, but he was too wrapped up in his plans to take much note.  
  
There was much to think about.


	3. Catherine

“Suck in a breath, m’lady, and hold it tight.”  
  
Catherine drew in a deep breath and did her best to hold it, clenching her stomach muscles until they ached. Behind her, Peggy tugged futilely at the edges of the dress, struggling to draw the ends close enough to fasten her mistress in. The closures pinched at Catherine’s fair skin and the lace-trimmed sleeves dug into her upper arms, forming a tiny roll of flesh. Her breasts felt mashed and mangled in the tight-fitting bust.  
  
She dropped a hand over her faintly sloping belly and tried to _push_ it in, willing the dress closed. _Please, please, please,_ she chanted. She couldn’t have outgrown yet _another_ gown. There was so much of the Season left to go!  
  
Seams strained and creaked in protest.  
  
“It’s no good, m’lady,” Peggy finally said, letting go with a frustrated grunt. Catherine closed her eyes and dropped her forehead against the wooden bedpost, letting out her desperately held breath. Stomach muscles no longer so tightly clenched, her stomach pressed out just a little bit more, tugging at the fine blue lawn. “Perhaps it has been shrunk in the washing,” her maid continued gently. “It’s been known to happen, and I’ve given the girl the sharp end of my tongue more than once for her lack of proper attention.”  
  
Catherine looked over her shoulder, smiling at the other girl through a veil of golden hair. “Thank you, Peggy, but I think we both know it isn’t anyone’s fault. At least,” she added with a sigh, “it isn’t anyone’s fault but my own. I’ve been letting myself get fat again.”  
  
Peggy made a dissatisfied noise, already reaching out to help Catherine get undressed. The tight sleeves clung to her pale, softly rounded upper arms, refusing for an embarrassing moment to budge.   
  
“You know it’s only the truth. I was measured for these gowns before Christmas, and already a good half of them are too small for me.” She stepped out of the dress and turned to flop on the bed, loose curls spilling across the counterpane. Her underclothes had gotten snugger too, Catherine realized with a depressed sigh. The tops of her breasts squeezed above the white cloth, and her hips stretched the delicate fabric tight over her rear. She slid a hand down her stomach, absently noting the way it curved up and out before sloping down to her private area. “I may as well face the truth of it once more. I’ve gotten _fat_.”  
  
“Nonsense,” Peggy clucked, carefully putting away the dress. She sorted through Catherine’s trunk before pulling out another, this one made larger, intended to be less snug. _It probably will not fit me either,_ Catherine thought darkly, but she leaned up on her elbows to watch her maid with a faint frown. “You may have put on a little weight, it is true, but that is hardly uncommon for a girl your age. Why, my little sister, she changes this way and that with the seasons. As Spring comes and the Season gets into full swing, you’ll lose the winter padding again and don’t you fret.”  
  
Catherine twisted her lips. “The Season. Dinner parties, brunches, breakfasts, teas.”  
  
Peggy shook out the dress. “Dancing and walking and courting.”  
  
“Lumps of sugar, tarts, creams, puddings.”  
  
“Exercise and activity and excitement.” The dark-haired maid shook her finger at her mistress. “You mark my words, miss. Once the dancing and courting begins, you’ll be slipping into these dresses with no trouble.”  
  
Catherine was already shaking her head. “And if I do not? Peggy, look at me.” She gestured down her body, then hopped off the bed. Catherine grabbed at the hem of her chemise and tugged it up, revealing the unfashionably soft, curvy frame beneath. She could see herself reflected in the mirror from her dimpled thighs all the way to her too-full chest. She’d always been this way, for as long as she could remember. Ever drawn to sweet things and ever able to put on weight, even if she tried to be careful about what she ate.  
  
It seemed as if her body were _made_ to be soft. It certainly wasn’t made to be long and lean, like the fashion called for. Her breasts were too big and her hips too wide. If she didn’t keep herself thin, the Empire waistlines made her look swollen and mortifyingly pregnant.  
  
“I will never find a husband like this,” Catherine sighed, turning to examine herself more closely. Yes, there, her stomach curved out in a gentle arch. She reached down to finger the fat, digging her nail into soft, white skin. She wasn’t as fat as Aunt Rachel, at least, with her rolls and chins and overflowing corsets, but she was well on her way to—  
  
She was—  
  
“Peggy!” Catherine yelped excitedly, dropping her chemise and turning to face her maid. “That’s it!” The other girl looked at her in frank confusion and Catherine laughed, grabbing her up into a hug. Why she hadn’t thought of it in the first place, she didn’t know. “A _corset_ , Peggy. All I need is a full corset and it will not matter if I get so fat I have to be rolled into bed every night. I can hide my figure easily!”  
  
Peggy frowned. “Begging your pardon, miss, but corsets are terrible out of fashion. Only old gentlewomen and—“  
  
“And fat, piggish girls wear them,” Catherine interrupted fiercely. “No, stop, I know what you’re going to say. But this happens to me every Season, Peggy—I start out half-starved from Mother’s attentions and slowly begin filling out as the Season wears on. The fact that I’ve _already_ begun putting on weight just proves that if I want to be able to eat, ever, I have to realize that I am going to have the belly to show for it. And I have to eat, Peggy. I cannot keep _starving_ myself.”  
  
She didn’t have the willpower, for one. Surrounded by the lush delicacies of the Season, all her good intentions seemed to blow away like a fine mist on the breeze. That coupled with her body’s natural tendency to swell up if she so much as _thought_ about food…  
  
No, years out of fashion or not, this was the only way she could hope of making it through another Season.  
  
“We will go to the dressmaker to be fitted tomorrow,” Catherine decided. “My dresses will have to be reshaped, but that will be no trouble.”  
  
“But your form,” Peggy sighed. “The line of your dress. Oh, miss, it will be _ruined_ in those dowdy old things. Could you not just trust to dancing?”  
  
Catherine was already shaking her head. “Not this Season, Peggy. Perhaps not ever again.” She turned to look at herself in the mirror once more, shaking back her loose curls and mentally picturing the figure she would cut. Maybe she was curved enough that no one would notice the whalebone cage. Maybe it _wouldn’t_ mar the fashionable Grecian lines.  
  
Either way, between a round stomach and a tightly cinched waist, any potential husband would choose the unfashionable hourglass. And she was a woman in desperate need of a husband.  
  
Before she truly got so fat that no corset could help her.


	4. Richard

Even though Richard had been gone from London for quite some weeks now, he couldn’t get Fitzwilliam’s words out of his head.  
  
_So you’ll be stuffed like a prize hog every Season until your breeches don’t fit and your gut bounces with each step,_ his friend had said. Richard tried not to dwell on the image those words presented, but he found himself captivated by it. _Obsessing_ over it, almost, as the Season settled into its endless round of balls and parties. He hadn’t seen either of his friends since returning to town—Fitzwilliam had been called back to his country home and Isaac was busy making good with the Prince Regent and his new circle of important friends.  
  
Isaac was busy dining at Eastwick. Isaac was busy stuffing his strong, slender body until he ached.  
  
Isaac was busy getting fat.  
  
Richard closed his eyes at the sudden, vivid picture that thought presented. He could almost see Isaac at a dinner table that groaned under the weight of food covering it. Isaac struggling to keep up with the hugely fat prince, making idle conversation as his belly swelled up against the rich fabric of his jacket. Maybe he’d have to slide a hand down, fingers tugging at the waist of his breeches until they dipped under the swollen pain of his stomach. Maybe he’d have to unfasten them altogether.  
  
God, why was the image of the new Duke of Northumberland stuffing himself until he grew round and ripe so damned _appealing_? And why couldn’t Richard put the thought aside and get on with his own obligations no matter how hard he tried?  
  
“Excuse me,” he murmured to the young Miss the master of ceremonies had just presented to him. She was pretty enough, he supposed, with golden curls and warm brown eyes. There was a softness to her face and upper arms that was appealing and a gentleness about her voice that promised a kind spirit, but Richard wasn’t in the mood for marriage-minded girls. He had to exorcise Isaac from his body before he could focus on the various scandals and flirtations of the Season.  
  
And he knew only one way to do it.  
  
The city air tasted fresh in comparison to the stuffy drawing room. Richard took a deep, measured breath before setting off down the uneven sidewalk. The air was chilly and puffy white clouds drifted from his mouth, but there was no hope of catching a hansom cab this close to the swirl of lights and dancing and gaiety.  
  
Would Isaac be able to dance when he was weighed down by his new, heavy belly? He had always been a fair dancer—one of the best in their division. All the tavern wenches had admired the fine cut of his figure and the way he led his partner through the intricate steps as if they were flying. Richard’s brother had never been much of a dancer, but he stood up even less now. No one said anything—they wouldn’t; not about a man of his standing—but the reason he refused to stand up with pretty girls was more than obvious.  
  
Richard drew in a sharp breath and turned the corner, impatiently waving down an oncoming cab. The interior smelled of rotten cabbage and unwashed flesh, but it was warmer than the city streets. Richard pulled back against the corner of the carriage and shifted with the lurching of the horses. He hadn’t seen his brother, Lord Aldritch, since the end of the previous Season.  
  
_Seeing him will be enough,_ Richard told himself, shutting his eyes tight. Behind them, he saw Isaac again as he was the night at the bordello—handsome, partially-dressed, thighs parting in silent invitation as the women kissed and bit at the strong line of his jaw. Witnessing Isaac with prostitutes and loose women was always difficult for him, but it was better than…  
  
Better than…  
  
Well. It was simply better than not having him at all.  
  
The carriage rumbled to a halt before he could think on that much longer and Richard gratefully slid out into the open. He tossed the driver his coin and straightened his greatcoat, looking up at the posh façade of his brother’s London townhouse. It was far nicer than his own, of course—Timothy was the eldest son, after all—and the lights were still burning. Richard hurried up the steps to rap on the door, stamping his feet against the cold that was already beginning to creep in to numb his fingers and toes.  
  
The servant who answered didn’t bother asking him to give a card. Richard was allowed in immediately, hat, gloves, and coat taken without question. “Shall I prepare the guest suit for you, sir?” Jones asked and Richard absently waved his agreement, already heading up the flight of stairs to the main floor. Timothy was home—he’d have been told immediately if he wasn’t—and Richard had a fairly good idea of where he’d find him.  
  
_Just one look,_ he thought, taking the stairs quickly. _Just to see for myself, fully this time, the damage membership to Eastwick does on a man. Then I’ll be able to stop wondering about Isaac’s fate. I’ll be able to get him out of my head and get on with…_  
  
He froze two steps into the library, eyes going wide.  
  
_Good Lord._  
  
His brother was home, all right, sprawled exactly where he’d imagined him. But nothing, _nothing_ else was like Richard had imagined.  
  
Richard took another careful step into the room, shocked into perfect silence. He hadn’t seen his brother for over half a year, since the last Season, and in that time, Timothy had been greatly altered. He was almost unrecognizable, Richard thought, looking over the snoring, round ball of a man.  
  
Timothy, Lord Aldritch had never been a Corinthian like Isaac, but he had always cut a modestly trim figure. When he ascended to the title, he’d begun to put on weight rapidly—first in his belly and then everywhere else, as if the rest of his body were struggling to catch up with his gut.  
  
Richard’s brother had been fat the last time he’d seen him, no question. Now he was truly _mammoth_. His backside was wide and soft, practically overflowing the leather chair he reclined in. His chin settled into a second, which hung thick and round above his neck. His legs filled his breeches to near bursting, fat thighs spread wide, and his arms were as thick around as Richard’s own thigh. Maybe more, Richard judged, creeping closer to the sleeping mountain of a main.  
  
Most shocking, however, was his belly. It was a wide, round ball of dough. No, that wasn’t quite right, for it didn’t take into account the rolls of flesh building one on top of the other and expanding out until they flowed over the arms of the chair. The thick, soft swell of it rested fully in Timothy’s lap, pushing his thighs wider apart with the weight and hanging down in the gap. If naked, one wouldn’t be able to see his privates, his belly was so large and soft. His chest sported pillowy, heavy breasts that pressed so tight against his straining shirt as to be almost obscene.  
  
Richard drew in an unsteady breath, shocked by his brother’s transformation. He turned at the sound of a footfall, spotting Jones standing respectfully at the doorway.  
  
“Your room is ready,” Jones murmured when Richard moved to join him. He didn’t glance twice at his hugely fat master. Used to him, no doubt. “M’lord has had an eventful night,” he added, as if apologizing that Timothy had not been awake to greet him. “He was required at Eastwick.”  
  
The flash of heat Richard felt at those words was nearly devastating. “I see,” he said as coolly as possible. He nodded once to Jones and moved past him, forcing himself not to hurry. He moved blindly past serving girls and into the guest room set aside for visiting family members. His bed had been turned down and a lit candle waited on the dresser.  
  
Richard didn’t bother undressing, beyond tugging off his Hessians and flinging them aside. He blew out the candle and slid into the bed, already reaching for the fastenings of his breeches.  
  
It wasn’t the image of his brother that drove him. He didn’t even see his brother when he closed his eyes and pushed his hand down to wrap desperate fingers around his erection. He saw _Isaac_. Isaac as he was the last time they had been together, dark-haired and handsome and trim. He saw Isaac as he no doubt was tonight, stomach faintly swollen with rich food, body protesting the abuse of overindulgence. He saw Isaac in a month, two months, at Season’s end, gut round and almost hard with so much food. It would be hard like that for awhile, Richard thought, squeezing himself, stroking roughly. While he had to stuff himself to keep up with the fat prince, his stomach would grow and grow and grow until he looked like a pregnant woman, balance thrown into a wildly pronounced waddle.  
  
And then, oh, into the next Season, all that food turned into fat. Soft, pillowy layers of it settling over his friend and sometimes lover. His hips widening, forming love handles. His stomach flowing into a heavy belly. Rolls forming one on top of the other. Chest softening. Breasts forming.  
  
Richard could picture it so _clearly_ it was as if Isaac were standing before him, growing in fast-forward, blowing up in front of his eyes. Fatter and fatter in a way that should have been repulsive but which, God, made his entire body _burn_.  
  
And the thought of reaching out to touch that wobbling belly, of pressing himself against it was enough to make him come long and hard, muscles clenching, head tossed back, impossible heat overwhelming him until his thoughts crashed into white noise.  
  
When he came to himself again, he was panting hard and sticky. Richard turned his face to press his cheek against the soft pillow, letting himself sink into the languid warmth of orgasm.  
  
And if he pictured himself sinking against Isaac’s flabby, welcoming body? Well. He supposed that unusual obsession was not going to die anytime soon.


	5. Isaac

“Damnation, help me,” Isaac muttered, flailing at his footman’s hand. It seemed to sway—or was he the one swaying?—jerking out of reach every time he tried to grab it.

His private carriage was dark and reeked of alcohol. _He_ reeked of alcohol. He’d lost his coat somewhere along the way, and his fine brocade waistcoat was missing a button. Or two. Three? God, he could actually see the white of his shirt beneath it, his belly pushed out in a bloated gut, the seam of his pants straining as he tried and failed to heave himself up.

“Grab my damn hand.”

“Here you are, m’lord.” The footman finally stepped up into the carriage and took Isaac’s elbow, steadying him. At least, as much as he could be steadied in this state. His head was drunkenly whirling and he was so stuffed he was certain he’d be sick at any moment. “Hold on to me and we’ll get you inside safe and sound.”

Isaac grunted, but he held on as the man half hoisted him up, tugging him from the carriage. His feet felt heavy, as if he’d tied weights to his Hessians. His damned gut jutted before him in a way that made him stumble—as if a weight had been tied to his stomach as well.

God, he felt massive. Tonight, Prinny had been in fine form, driving the rest of them to new heights of excess. He’d blacked out drunk somewhere in the middle of it all, only to be roused to continue drinking. Drinking and eating and playing cards for hours and hours. It was…

Isaac stumbled against his footman, laughing, and cupped the round ball of his gut. He let out a belch as he was half-dragged up the steps to his townhome. The sun was breaking over the horizon, dawn making everything too bright, too golden. _Piss_ on the dawn, anyway. Piss on the dawn, on carriages that were too damnably hard to climb out of on your own, on waistcoats that grew too tight and lost all but three of their buttons, and on footmen who murmured nonsense like, “We’ll just be getting you upstairs then,” and “Do you think you can make it, m’lord?”

“ _No_ ,” Isaac said—slurred—rubbing his hand over his belly again and again. It was so full it hurt. “I’m bloody well too drunk and _fat_ to climb up those stairs. Don’t you _listen_?”

A throat cleared behind them. Isaac blearily looked over his shoulder, beginning to smile when he spotted Allen. “Allen!” he said, waving his manservant over. “Tell this man I’m too bloody _fat_ to climb, will you? He doesn’t have the good sense that God gave him.”

“I have his lordship,” Allen murmured quietly, taking the footman’s place. He slung Isaac’s arm over his shoulders and helped him hobble slowly away from the steps and toward the drawing room. “Here now, sir—did you have a pleasant evening?”

Isaac belched again as he was lowered into his big wingback armchair. He sank into its cushy warmth, both hands spanning his gut. It was bigger than it had been before, especially now that he was so damn _full_. Stuffed like a prize hog. He tugged at the front of his waistband, fingers fumbling uselessly at the fine cloth until another of the buttons popped off with a satisfying clatter. His gut seemed to expand a little to fill the added space.

“M’lord,” Allen murmured, reaching down to help him.

Isaac just batted his hands away. “No, I have this. Good God, look at me.” He laughed again, though there was a part of him—drunk as he was—that was dying a little inside. How must he look to his servants? Flying so high he was barely in control of himself, sprawled out helplessly on the chair because he couldn’t face the steps up to his own bed, clothes half torn from his body and stuffed gut rounded out like he was big with child.

He spanned his hands up and down the slopes of his stomach, feeling absolutely massive. At another twist of his fingers, the second button popped off, then the third. His waistcoat flew open and Isaac grunted in mingled relief and shame as his hard stomach pushed forward. Stuffed this full, it nearly touched his lap.

“Look at me,” he said again, quieter. “Everyone’s going to be looking at me. They’ll _talk_. I need to find that, that wife. That…”

Allen cleared his throat, leaning in to adjust a pillow behind Isaac’s head. “Everything will feel better in the morning,” he assured him. “When your head is clear.”

“Will I be this fat in the morning?” Isaac asked, catching at Allen’s arm. He gave it a little shake, snickering to himself at Allen’s patient look. “Sorry,” he said. “I am…very drunk.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Allen said. Then, “You had a caller earlier today. It appears Lord Richard has returned to London.”

Isaac stopped trying to grab for Allen’s hands and smiled, huge and warm and bright. “Richard!” he said, half-struggling up in his chair. “I— _Oof_.” He collapsed gracelessly back again as the world spun around him, snickering. “Hard to stand, eh? Never mind. Richard’s back! That’s _capital_. Is he still here? May I see him? It’s been ages.”

Too long. It was always too long between visits from dear…dear… _dear_ Richard. Why was that again? Why did he keep letting Richard _go_? He should beg him to stay next time. He should forget his own pride and caution and get on his knees to beg. Maybe if he let himself get this drunk, he even would.

“He left his card, m’lord,” Allen said. “But he mentioned he would very much like to meet with you when next you were free.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? “I’m never free,” Isaac sighed, long and deep. He allowed himself to sink back against the soft give of the armchair, staring moodily up at the ceiling. His high spirits of a moment before were already fading. “I could pretend, back in the Army, but now? I never will be again. But perhaps…” He closed his eyes and reached up to touch the swell of his belly again, rubbing at the dull ache. “Perhaps I could get permission to bring him with me from time to time. I would like that. I would like to see… _Richard_.”

God, Richard. Was there anyone better in the whole world? Drunk as he was, Isaac couldn’t think of anyone who could compare. Certainly not some _wife_ he’d be forced to find before the Season’s end. Richard was eight times better than any wife—or any woman he’d been with, if he allowed himself to be honest. (Though Isaac was very, very careful not to be too honest with himself about those preferences; it was dangerous to want Richard as anything more than a vague distraction.)

Still. There was no denying that Richard seemed to understand his needs better than anyone, and he was always, _always_ eager to meet them. Speaking of…

Isaac squinted open an eye to look at Allen. “Best warn him not to try to suck on my cock or kiss me in front of all those proper dukes, hm?”

Allen stiffened in visible shock, but he schooled his expression quickly. “Indeed, sir,” he said.

Isaac frowned. He wasn’t sure he was supposed to have said that. What he and the boys from the regiment sometimes did to blow off steam was a _secret_. The fact that Richard seemed to have a particular taste for him—something very close to what a woman might feel for a man—was an even stricter one. Only Fitzwilliam knew, because Fitzwilliam thought their little relationship dramas were _hysterical_.

“Oh,” he said, closing his eye again. “I shouldn’t have said that to you. You didn’t hear it.”

“Of course, sir,” Allen said immediately.

Isaac let out a boozy breath. “I’m too drunk to function. Wake me when I’ve digested enough to make it up those damn stairs.”

“Of course, sir.”

_Of course, sir_. That’s all he heard nowadays—now that he was the Duke. _Of course, sir. This way, sir. Have another helping, sir_.

Richard wasn’t like that. Neither was Fitzwilliam, but Richard was softer and more openly admiring—and, of course, far more likely to press close and slide a hand into Isaac’s tight trousers. He could use that now. Not only the clever fingers, but the way Richard _looked_ at him. He hadn’t been feeling particularly attractive the last several weeks as he drank and ate and fought to keep up with the fat lords he was destined to join. Maybe with Richard back in town, he’d feel desired again.

Maybe he’d feel like _himself_ again.

_Richard_ , Isaac thought as he drifted off, lips quirking into a sloppy smile, one hand rubbing a slow circle against the wide dome of his overstuffed gut. _Thank God for Richard._


	6. Richard

Richard glanced eagerly toward the door every time it opened. He still couldn’t believe he’d been permitted to come—Eastwick was one of the most exclusive clubs in London. It was the Prince Regent’s favorite haunt, due largely to its exclusivity, but also to the team of French geniuses serving meals every night. An _epicureans_ club, he believed it was called. A place where men came to sample incredibly sinful creations amongst the glitz and glamour of obvious wealth.  
  
He was the second son and unlikely to ever have the title, but perseverance had finally won him an evening’s invitation. _Thank your every luck, Richard,_ his older brother, Lord Aldritch had said as he waddled down the main hall. He’d been packed into his suit like a sausage stuffed into its skin, bulges and rolls pouring out every which way. His massive belly, hanging in an apron of fat down his thighs, bumped and jiggled as his thick legs moved.  
  
Lord Aldritch was incredibly fat—a mockery of the human form, blown up into a heavy ball. He hadn’t been able to get into the carriage unassisted, fat belly impeding him, and even then his massive thighs and rear had stuck for a heart-stopping moment in the too narrow door. All through the short ride to the club, Richard hadn’t been able to get that image out of his mind. The seams of his brother’s breeches had groaned and strained as he squirmed to get free. The wide cheeks of his fat bottom filled the doorway and the entire carriage rocked as he tried to pry his way in.  
  
_What would Issac look like, that fat?_ he hadn’t been able to keep from wondering, and in his mind’s eye it _was_ Isaac huffing and grunting and finally toppling in. It was Isaac falling back into the extra-wide seat, legs spread to make room for the heavy apron of his belly. Richard’s knees had touched it no matter how he chose to sit, its thick outer curve impossible to avoid completely. Watching Lord Aldritch lean back, hugely fat fingers massaging the first of many belly rolls, Richard had been unable to see the round ball of a man as anyone but Isaac, Duke of Northumberland, and the image was enough to heat his blood to boiling.  
  
_Calm yourself_ , Richard told himself firmly, settling back in the comfortable winged chair. He reached for his mug, taking a sip of the mulled wine. There was another glass by the first, filled with intoxicating nog, and another small tumbler filled with hard liquor. Half the men would be drunk by the time dinner was called, and the other half, no doubt, would find their way there by late evening when they stumbled from the table.  
  
Already, Richard was beginning to feel a bit…altered. He took a deeper sip, reveling in the warmth traveling through his limbs. He wondered briefly what it would be like if he were required to dine here on Prinny’s whim, and the image of his own flat stomach bulging out into a fat ball made him laugh. He set aside the cider and grabbed for the nog, swallowing the heavy cream drink thirstily. It wouldn’t happen—not unless his brother passed and the title came to him—but for tonight, he could imagine he was one of them, set to become lush and fat and dissipated.  
  
The door opened again, letting in a gust of cool air, and Richard glanced toward it. His heart lurched into double-time when he caught sight of Isaac’s familiar, beloved face, and he straightened, straining to see the rest of him.  
  
_How much will he have gained?_ Richard wondered excitedly. He hadn’t seen his friend and sometimes-lover since early February. Now that Isaac was a member of Eastwick, he’d had no time to do anything but bow to Prinny’s whims. For months, all Richard could do was _imagine_ the changes taking place. He could only _imagine_ the weight slowly piling on.  
  
He licked his lips, watching as Isaac was helped out of his greatcoat, gloves, and hat. A man’s main coat was cut high at the waist, exposing the front placket of his pants and framing his stomach. It was the perfect showcase for a gain of any size, favoring instead the whip-thin dandies. As Isaac turned toward him, Richard took stock of his friend’s powerful body, from his muscled thighs up to his broad chest. And his stomach—  
  
His breath caught, heart nearly tripping over itself, skipping beats before _racing_ in his chest as he stood. Isaac wasn’t fat. He hadn’t had time to grow truly _fat_ , especially with the perfect athleticism he’d once had. But there was no denying the proud bulge of his stomach, pushing out past the high hem of his coat and rounding the front of his breeches.  
  
He had a gut. A definite, noticeable gut. Perched on his otherwise fit body, Isaac looked almost pregnant. No, Richard corrected himself, smiling in greeting as Isaac made his way over, walk still devoid of waddle. No, there was no _almost_ about it. With his powerful chest and shoulders and bulging gut, Isaac looked like a woman in the early stages of her pregnancy.  
  
“Lord Tilney,” Richard greeted him, bowing faintly at the waist. His head was spinning with liquor and lust, especially when Isaac stepped close and gripped his hand in a warm greeting. The heady scent of sandalwood and lavender surrounded them.  
  
“Please, none of that,” Isaac said, clasping Richard’s shoulder. His breath smelled of gin, and his eyes were already a little unfocused. Clearly he’d begun celebrating in the carriage. “We’re at my club—if a man can’t be relaxed in his own club, I don’t know where he can be.”  
  
Richard flushed, leaning a little into the touch, and was relieved to see the appreciative look Isaac cast him. Part of him had been afraid he would no longer be desirable to Isaac now that Isaac was a Duke.  
  
“Of course. I was just sampling a little of what your club had to offer,” Richard added, taking a seat. He watched eagerly as Isaac moved to take the chair opposite him, noting the way he eased himself into the seat. He was clearly unaccustomed to the new weight around his middle. God, and that awkwardness would only grow as Isaac did. Richard reached for one of his glasses, not particularly caring which, as a silent servant brought Isaac his own round of drinks. Cider, nog, gin. And, Richard noted with surprise, an extra small glass filled with some thick liquid he did not recognize.  
  
Isaac reached for that first, downing it with a single swallow and wincing after. He set the glass aside with a clunk, then paused and gestured for the servant to bring him another. “And one for my friend,” he added, words faintly slurred. “Laudanum,” he added at Richard’s curious glance. “I’m afraid the pain of keeping pace with the Prince would down you if you didn’t.”  
  
Laudanum. Of course. How else could a man blithely ignore the incredible discomfort of his stomach stretching wide? It probably kept him docile too, Richard thought with shameful excitement, watching as Isaac downed his second dose. Likely most days he was too drunk or too hungover to really notice what was happening with his body.  
  
Richard sipped at his own dose, trying not to let his face show any of what he was thinking. He was grateful of the protection it afforded when Isaac leaned back in his chair and rubbed his gut once. “Ah, God, Richard,” he said, shaking his head. “Look what this place is doing to me. Admit it—I’m getting fat.”  
  
Richard’s throat went dry and he slowly lowered the glass. Thankfully, Isaac didn’t seem to require a reply.  
  
“Horribly, _horribly_ fat. No doubt I’ll be near double the size I am now at the end of the evening, straining and popping my buttons every which way. Fitzwilliam was right. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do. I have to keep pace with the Prince if I want his favor, and there’s no time for my usual sport. By the time the Season ends, I’ll have to be rolled out of London. At least I won’t be the only one.”  
  
Isaac looked around, taking deep gulps from his nog. Richard sipped his drink and followed Isaac’s gaze, taking in the multitude of flush-faced, round-bellied men. Old and young, they varied in size and shape, but every single one of them wore the badge of Eastwick membership: a round gut and softening body. Isaac was the smallest by far.  
  
“It’s intolerable, is what it is,” Isaac was saying. “It’s _embarrassing_ , Richard, if I were to be honest. But I have a scheme to help with that. I can’t tell you the details here,” he added, meeting Richard’s eyes. “But I will need your help in seeing it to fruition.”  
  
“Of course,” Richard promised breathlessly. “Anything.”  
  
“Good man.” Isaac smiled at him warmly—almost hotly—and Richard felt his entire body twist with desire. Perhaps tonight, after the dinner when men retired to gambling or whores, Isaac would allow him to help him to one of the private retiring rooms and strip him bare. It had been so long since Richard had touched his lover, and his fingers were itching to reach out now.  
  
He forced himself to relax back instead. He didn’t try keeping up with Isaac’s steady consumption of the heavy alcohol, instead sipping the rich beverages and keeping the conversation going. Isaac grew increasingly relaxed as the evening wore on, stomach bloating out gradually with everything he had to drink. By the time dinner was called, Isaac was tipsy and in high spirits, his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed.  
  
He struggled up a little, gripping the edges of the chair, and Richard watched carefully as Isaac took the first shuffling step toward the main doors. Most of the men were in a similar state, the newest peers soothed by laudanum and fortified by alcohol, their obese elders well used to the punishment their bodies would endure.  
  
Because Isaac was so new to the Dukedom, he was not seated near the Prince. Richard hardly minded. It meant he was allowed to sit by his friend, the better to watch him through the meal.  
  
The _feast_ , Richard corrected himself, staring in awe at the huge table laid out for them. Crystal, silver and gold glistened on top of the huge oak table, snowy white linens covered in china. Each man had a livered footman to tend him, pulling out the chairs as one, faces impassive. At the very end of the table sat the hugely fat Prince, wedged into a double-wide chair, chins bobbing in welcome as he looked up and down the line.   
  
_Measuring his friends’ bellies no doubt,_ Richard thought darkly, _to make sure they were getting to be as large as his._ Clearly the Prince didn’t want to be so morbidly obese alone.  
  
God. The cartoons in the Times didn’t do him justice. Isaac would look beautiful like that, covered in layers of pillowy fat, barely able to wobble to his feet.  
  
Richard sat with the rest, dazed. He remained dazed through the first few courses, eating automatically. He took small bites of everything he was brought, amazed at how quickly and fluidly the service ran. Men chatted and argued with each other as they ate great quantities of food, each clearly aware of Prinny’s watchful eye. Beside him, Isaac kept pace with the old-timers with astonishing ease. Even as they rounded into the fourth serving, he tucked away nearly everything he was given without trouble, washing it down with heavy swallows of wine.  
  
Richard reached down surreptitiously to adjust the fit of his trousers, vowing to take even smaller bites. The Prince was veering into raucously drunk by now—surely it was safe to flag behind. Even with the bit of laudanum he’d sipped, his stomach was beginning to pain him.  
  
So slowed, Richard was able to pay more attention to how Isaac was faring. He watched as the other man shifted, chair creaking beneath him. His gut had grown through the courses, pushing out more and more as he stuffed it with food. Soups and breads and cheeses and sweetmeats. Puddings and quail and eggs and things Richard had no name for. By the time the sixth course was brought, Isaac’s belly was rounded in a proud dome and his cheeks were permanently red from too much drink.  
  
By the time the _ninth_ course was set, he was lolling back in his chair and the buttons of his trousers were threatening to pop.  
  
“Mm,” he murmured, ability to form full, intelligible words gone. “Oh, mmm. Ooh.” He rubbed his massively full stomach and leaned in, letting the upper ridge of it brush the table. It sat between his thighs, pushing them apart he was so full, and Richard swore he could almost _see_ it getting fatter with each bite. Isaac was still shoveling food into his mouth when many others had slowed to a crawl. He moaned heartily and chewed, letting out a glad belch. His heavy gut shook with the expelled air, and he took a breath before diving into his food again, utterly focused on the act of eating.  
  
_Oh,_ Richard thought, watching his lover stuff himself to bursting. _He’s going to explode right here. He’s going to rip right out of those clothes._ Isaac’s waistcoat was gaping widely, showing flashes of his once snowy white shirt—now stained with food and drink. A large crescent of shirt and skin were visible as his breeches rolled down his expanding gut, tucking along the bottom crease.  
  
By the time the last course was taken away and the men were free to go about their pursuits, Isaac was full and ripe and bloated to bursting, stomach arching from tits to hips in an incredible dome.  
  
He was beautiful.  
  
“Ooh,” Isaac moaned, grabbing the arms of the chair as he hoisted himself to his feet. Richard reached out to help him, eagerly taking some of his weight. His own breeches were painfully tight and his stomach felt like it would rupture any moment, but it had been worth it to see Isaac in the height of incredible excess. It was obvious that, no matter what he claimed—perhaps even no matter what he thought—he was not a reluctant participant. The relish with which he’d eaten had belied _that_ easily.  
  
“Here, I’ve got you,” Richard reassured his friend, helping him from the room. They waddled together, listing from side to side with Isaac’s forward weight, and Richard only paused long enough to murmur instructions to a servant and gain the directions he needed. “Come, lean on me,” he urged Isaac, grunting at the press of weight but loving it. He led Isaac back deeper into the club, where private bedrooms could be had to entertain the whores—or sleep off the immediate effects of a debilitating meal.  
  
The room Richard led them into was sumptuous and dominated by a four poster bed. Richard helped Isaac to the bed, urging him to cling to one of the poles as he carefully dropped down to tug off the other man’s boots. It was painful moving too much, his own stomach aching, but the grateful sound Isaac made once it was done made it all worth it.  
  
The door opened quietly as Richard helped Isaac roll carefully into the bed, and the rich smell accosted Richard. It was almost too much, the scent of sweets after their gargantuan meal, but he knew that it would be a long time—if ever—before he had Isaac at his mercy like this again. And he couldn’t deny his own dark fantasies, no matter how wrong they may have made him.  
  
Sprawled on the bed, legs pushed wide and stomach arching in a high dome before him, Isaac was nearly incapacitated. He was pinned down by the fullness of his belly and made near insensible by the amount of liquor he’d consumed. He fumbled up to rub the sides of his gut, stroking his fingers along the straining seams of his waistcoat.  
  
Richard moved to bring the tray closer to the bed before going to carefully lock the door. He slipped out of his own coat and waistcoat, unbuttoning his breeches to release his straining stomach. It bulged forward, packed to bursting with food, and he rubbed it gently as he moved around the bed.  
  
Standing at the base, he could clearly see the bare crescent of skin peeking past Isaac’s restrictive clothing. He licked his lips, hand dipping into his pants once before sliding out again. Richard reached out to touch Isaac’s bulbous belly, trailing his fingers along it as he continued his circuit around the bed, then back again.  
  
“God, you’re so beautiful like this,” he breathed, moving to stand by the tray. He dipped one of the sweets in laudanum, then honey, and moved to paint Isaac’s lips with the dribbling treat. Isaac moaned, mouth opening wide on the sound, and Richard popped it into his mouth before he could protest. He was already preparing another sugared square, using less laudanum this time. He only wanted enough to make Isaac more comfortable as he took him well past his limit—as he stuffed more sugary treats into him and encouraged that incredible belly to grow.  
  
“You’re so beautiful. Flushed and sweet and getting so very _fat_.” He pushed the next treat into Isaac’s mouth, cramming it in and watching as his lover reflexively chewed and swallowed. The seams of his clothes creaked in protest, buttons straining alluringly. “And so very drunk. You won’t remember this tomorrow, I know.” A Spanish chocolate followed by pure honey, pushed into Isaac’s mouth by Richard’s fingers. Isaac sucked on his fingers with a desperate sound, swallowing the heavy mouthful. Richard reached out to brush his fingers along the exposed curve of Isaac’s stomach, marveling at how much more skin was available now. Each bite seemed to swell Isaac up further, and each time he swelled more and more of his fat gut was exposed to the air.  
  
“You’re doing so well on your own,” Richard said, lifting the small pot of honey on impulse and drizzling it over Isaac’s lips. Isaac opened his mouth wide, swallowing all he could of it, neck straining as he tried to take more, and more. “You’re getting so big on your own, but I’m going to help push you over the edge. I’m going to crush your limits and make that little gut of yours balloon up into a massively fat belly. And then, when you’re so fat you can barely stand, so big your belly spills between your spread thighs, I’m going to strip you bare and lick across every fold and crease of you, sucking on your pale, doughy skin and rocking my body against your pillowy stomach.”  
  
He kept up the running monologue as he stuffed his already over-stuffed friend with bite after bite of sweet foods, occasionally pausing to pour yet more heavy nog down his throat. Finally, as he neared the end of the tray, a loud moan and _snap_ filled the dim room. Richard watched in aroused amazement as, one after one, the protesting buttons gave way, popping off Isaac’s waistcoat and scattering across the room. His waistcoat flew open, letting his stomach bulge out in a bouncing jolt. His strained shirt rolled up, revealing the wide expanse of his belly, marred by fine silver and pink lines and hanging off his body like a heavy pregnancy.  
  
“Oh,” Richard breathed, staring. It was almost obscene, the way his huge belly thrust forward, defying gravity. Richard reached out blindly, snagging the last handfuls of treats and shoved them into his own mouth. He swallowed greedily, thrusting his far smaller belly forward as he climbed onto the bed and straddled Isaac’s thighs, rubbing their stomachs together with quick, frenzied jerks.  
  
It would be amazing when Isaac was soft and covered with layers of fat, but it so good even now, hard bellies rocking together, moans falling in synch. There were small rolls forming at Isaac’s waist, Richard noted with a start, and he grabbed hold of them as if encouraging them to grow, rubbing up along the heavy expanse of Isaac’s stomach, utterly content in the knowledge that, when the morning came, Isaac would never remember this had happened.  
  
That and the utter inevitability of Isaac’s growth. There was no stopping it now, Richard knew, shuddering as he came. Nothing.


End file.
